After The After Party
by Fic Fairy
Summary: Holby City: Following Ric's resignation, four of Holby's finest hit a local bar with 'interesting' consequences.
1. The Bar

After The After Party

Disclaimer – All characters property of the BBC.

It is, what would probably be referred to as, an 'after party'. Numbers have long since dropped off leaving only those that could best be described as Ric and his inner circle; those who came to hobnob have done so and left, while the hard core have relocated from the hospital function room to a nearby bar; apparently with the intention of drinking it dry, and, it has to be said, have done a pretty good job.

'Carnage' would be the best way to describe the scene, Connie thinks as she surveys the after effects of the champagne, the cocktails and the multitude of shorts. She has the advantage of being completely sober, and as tempting as it would have been to join in with the fun, she's just beginning to see the benefits of not having done so – it makes the spectacle in front of her all the more enjoyable to watch.

Diane is, there's little doubt, the worst affected, having passed out at quarter to 10 and been asleep with her head in Connie's lap ever since. The man of the hour is doing slightly better, being as he is still standing but the fact that he's at the bar giving a girl who appears to be barely out of pigtails the come on would seem to indicate that it won't be long until he joins her.

Just as she's thinking this, and wondering if it might be wise to step in before Ric finds himself on a charge of sleeping with a minor, a voice breaks into her thoughts.

"What a sorry state of a man…"

She turns to see Abra Durrant sitting himself down beside her, following her gaze to Ric, and instantly gets the urge to move. Inwardly laughing at drunken people is one thing, having to engage them in conversation is something else entirely.

Before she can though, he's opening his mouth again and delivering one of his trademark conversation stoppers,

"Didn't you sleep with him once?"

"Well I wouldn't make the same mistake twice." The retort comes out slightly more icily than she intends, and she feels guilty. In actual fact, Ric was a 'mistake' that she'd have quite happily made two, three or four times more, if only her pride would have let her. Not that she's about to admit it.

"Oi." Abra waves a finger in the air in the way that only a drunk person can, "that's my best friend you're talking about. We're practically brothers." A drunken yet sly yet oddly endearing smile appears on his face, "And we share everything you know, even," he drops his voice and whispers to her in a mock confessional tone, "the ladies. Did he tell you that?"

She smiles in spite of herself, although she's blatantly aware of where the conversation is headed. Unpredictability is obviously not Mr Durrant's strong point. "Is that so?"

He nods, apparently in all seriousness although she suspects this is a long way from the truth,

"Yep. So, you know, if you want a bit, I can arrange it."

She looks at him thoughtfully, as if she's actually considering taking him up on her offer and then slowly shakes her head, "I think I'll pass for now, but thank you, I'll keep it in mind."

He grins a grins that falls somewhere between cheeky school boy, and leering pervert. "You make sure you do. I don't even care," he adds, "if you are pregnant. It doesn't bother me. I think its quite sexy."

At his words her smile freezes on her face, "Who said anything about being pregnant?" she mutters, hoping it sounds more convincing to him than it does to her. In response he reaches out taking her hand in his and inspecting it closely,

"This." He says, then takes her other hand as well, "and this." He smiles at her again, "You've got chubby little pregnancy hands."

"I'm sorry?"

There's obviously something in her tone that makes him more than aware that he really hasn't done himself any favours and he quickly attempts to dig himself out of the hole he's got himself into.

"They're not fat. They're just well," he turns one of her hands over and over in his, inspecting it closely, "pudgy."

She doesn't even need to respond this time for him to know he's in trouble so he puts his shovel down and lets the subject of her hands go. Instead he picks up her drink and tastes it, nodding knowingly, "Plus, no one would voluntary drink soft drinks all evening while surrounded by such distinguished company as," he nods towards Diane, "Sleeping Beauty, and," he looks over at Ric who now has his tongue down the throat of the Lolita figure at the bar, "Casanova over there."

She knocks back her orange juice in one, wondering where her denial can really go considering the way he's stacking the evidence up against her and decides that changing the subject is the way forward.

"You missed yourself off of that list."

"That's because I'm the kind of company an intelligent sophisticated woman like yourself would crave." He explains simply, before returning to the topic of his pregnancy once more, "When's it due?"

She is saved, at that moment, not by the bell, but by the unmistakable sound of Ric falling from his barstool and landing on the floor with a resounding crash. Looking at him, sprawled on the floor with no chance or intention of getting to his feet, and then Diane who is in the process of dribbling all over the cream fabric of her extortionate dress, she sighs and turns to Abra,

"Come on Mr Durrant, lets get this useless twosome home."


	2. Diane's Flat

The task proves a lot less easy than they would have hoped, and as Connie tries to wrestle Diane from her car, her stomach churning from the smell and sensation of vomit - a parting gift from Ric - trickling down her back, Abra sees fit to step in.

"You shouldn't be trying to lift her" he says helpfully, "Not in your condition."

Connie responds to this by giving him a look that would sour milk – although the though of that only makes her nauseous as well – and snapping, "Well you get her into the bloody apartment then." At which she stalks off, deciding to make the most of Diane's hospitality and grab a quick shower, wherein which she spends a good 15 minutes wondering what exactly she's done to deserve this, and taking some kind of perverse pleasure in the fact that she won't be the one suffering in the morning.

She dresses in a very bland jeans and sweatshirt combo borrowed from Diane's wardrobe, leaving the dribble and sick stained dress in the bath for Diane to deal with. Quite frankly, after her display of behaviour that evening, it's the least she can do

By the time she's finished and goes in search of the others Abra has managed, quite impressively, to not only get Diane into the flat, but also into bed, and, if Connie's reading the bare shoulders that poke out of the top of the duvet correctly, undressed her to boot. She looks at him questioningly but he just smiles,

"We're old friends. She wouldn't have minded."

The connotations of the statement are far too worrying to even comprehend but she doesn't have time to even think about it before he jumps back onto the charm offensive.

"You look nice." He says, looking her up and down, before his line of vision lands at waist height on the jeans, "Shame you couldn't get the button done up though. The downside of being 'with child' I suppose." She's tempted to smack him, but he must realise that he's about to get punched because he quickly moves past her mumbling something about "fancying a night cap".

She catches up with him in Diane's kitchen, where he's rooting through the cupboards obviously in search of something. She stands watching, again questioning exactly what she's doing there, and clears her throat slightly, wondering if its too much to ask that they actually go home, individually of course, any time tonight.

He ignores her, too intent on the task at hand, and then, finally.

"Ah ha! Got it!" He turns to her, waving a bottle in her face. She recognizes it instantly; it's a Remy Martin Louis XIII Grande Champagne Cognac, and the last time she drank it was at her wedding reception, shortly before she threw up down Michael's paisley waistcoat (admittedly no one had been able to tell the difference anyway). Not that that answers the question of what exactly a registrar with all the non-sophistication of Diane Lloyd would be doing stashing an £800 bottle of liquor between a jar of marmite and, she peers over Abra's shoulder into the cupboard, a container of cheese sauce granules.

"Ric." Abra supplies, as if reading her mind, "He gave it to her when she qualified, along with the keys to a Mini." A puzzled look crosses his face, as he, much like Connie herself, wanders where the perpetually broke Ric managed to get his hand an that amount of cash. Then he shrugs, "Must have been a good day at the casino I suppose." He moves around the kitchen looking for a cupboard holding glasses and on finding one turns to Connie again,

"You fancy one? Or are you worried about Beauchamp junior getting shitfaced and chucking up in your womb?"

The comment is, in itself, enough to drive her to drink, but for the good of the baby she declines. However, sensing that she's not going home anytime soon she switches on the kettle and removes a jar of Tesco's own decaffeinated coffee from the cupboard, pulling a face as she does so. Last time she drank instant coffee she was still living in Peckham. It's only been a matter of hours but she misses her Tassismo already.

Her companion makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table, sloshing what she would estimate as being a £50 measure into a glass. He spots her disapproving look and then knocks it back in one anyway.

"She's had it years. She's barely touched it. Lets face it," he adds in his own defence, "Diane's a lovely girl but this," he tops up his glass again, "really isn't her thing. She's more gin and tonic, 3 for 10 quid Chardonnay,"

"Bacardi Breezers on a park bench on a Friday night?" Connie breaks in, unable to hold back a smile, at which Abra chuckles, "You really are the bitch they make you out to be aren't you?"

"Absolutely." She finishes making her coffee and goes to sit down at the table beside him, "Thanks for the compliment."

"My pleasure." He responds in all seriousness, "I never really saw it before though. When Ric came to Ghana last summer he painted you as a mix between Cruella De Ville and Medusa – I was terrified of meeting you. But," he chuckles, "in reality you're like a little puppy dog," he fashions his hand into a mouth shape and snaps it open and shut a couple of times, "just nipping around the ankles. You're also cute," he adds, "he never mentioned that either. Obviously didn't want the competition..."

Connie groans inwardly, not entirely sure that being hit on by a drunken Abra shows up high on her radar of things she'd like to happen right now, but as he continues she realises that actually, there are a lot worse things.

"Someone's a very lucky man." He comments, before tossing the ultimate grenade of a question into the conversation, "Who is the father by the way? You never said."

Without another word, beyond a silent apology to her unborn child, she reaches for the Cognac and adds a £50 measure of her own to her coffee…

Sometimes, if you can't beat them, you just have to join them.


	3. Tinned Goods

"I don't know what they taught you at medical school," Abra says, eyeing Connie curiously as she pours the Cognac, "But that's not good for the baby."

She's tempted, very tempted, to tell him that the effect he's having on her blood pressure is no good for the baby either, but some how she suspects he'd quite like that fact, and she's not prepared to let him see he's getting to her. Instead, as she very coolly stirs the liquor into her coffee, she retorts,

"That's why I put it in coffee. It's a compromise between it and me."

He smiles, "So I see. But that in itself is sacrilege – you've just put Diane's very extravagant gift from Ric in instant coffee. What the hell are you playing at Mrs Beauchamp? I thought you were a woman of class." 

For all that he is irritating her, for all that he is causing her blood pressure to rise, she realises she's actually rather enjoying herself. She likes the playfulness, the bantering, it's too long since she's had someone to do it with, and so, as she sips her coffee she can't help but respond.

"A woman of class would not be sitting at an Ikea table at midnight modeling a Primark sweatshirt and drinking from," she lifts her mug and glances at the bottom of it, looking for some indicator of where Diane might have bought it, and then realises she's giving the other woman far too much credit, "a mug stolen from the hospital canteen."

Abra sniggers and then returns to his topic de jour, "A woman of class also wouldn't have inexplicably found herself up the duff with some commoners baby."

"Who mentioned a commoner?"

He laughs, "Ah, well you see, that's all in my detective skills." He gets to his feet and goes over to one of the kitchen cupboards, returning seconds later with a selection of tinned food which he proceeds to line up in front of him before turning his attention back to Connie. "Ok Ms Scarlett, this is the deal." He picks up the first tin in the row,

"This is me."

She smirks at him, really enjoying herself now, and raises her eyes, "You?"

He nods, "Me. The hot dog sausages with salty water. Read into that what you will." He drops the tin to the floor with a resounding crash that Connie suspects would wake the dead, although not Diane from her alcohol induced coma upstairs, "I'm not that father. I'd remember."

"Depends what state you were in." She says pointedly.

"No matter. I'd definitely remember bedding you. And likewise you with me actually," He adds, "I'm very good you know."

She rolls her eyes, but as gestures go it's playful, "Get on with it."

He takes up the second tin, Swedish meatballs, and she instantly knows what's coming next. 

"My husband I presume."

He claps at her insightfulness, "You're good at this. I presume Mikey's isn't in the frame though. He's been gone too long. Although," his tone softens, "I suspect he's the one you like it to be."

His words, so soft and gentle amidst all the comedy, cut right to the bone, and she finds herself unable to respond, rendered speechless that someone she barely knows has been able to touch on her deepest most hidden truth. Perhaps sensing this he lets that tin drop also before turning his attention to the next.

"Spaghetti hoops." He says, holding them up for her inspection, "Ric's favourite. Did you know that?"

She shakes her head, "But forget it. It's not him either."

He smiles, "This I know. He tells me everything." He pushes the spaghetti to one side and reaches for the two remaining tins, which he takes up, one in each hand, "Which brings it down to these."

Connie surveys the labels; beansprouts, and beef casserole, and suddenly finds herself feeling unusually concerned about the nutritional value, or lack thereof, in Diane's diet. Considering the woman is a qualified doctor it seems absolutely inexcusable. Before she can voice her concerns though Abra's off again, and with such precision that she can't help wondering if he's been rehearsing his act in his spare time for weeks.

"Beansprouts – stringy, weak, watery little things, and beef casserole – a piss poor specimen of meat that doesn't really make the grade. Representative of," he smiles a smug smile that leaves her in little doubt that he's very close to hitting the nail right on the head, "your Registrars. And since little Joe-Joe would have a coronary if you so much as looked at him with lust in your eyes, I think its safe to say," he drops the beansprouts onto the floor with all the other tins and hands Connie the beef casserole, "Sam Strachan is the father."

She tries to call his bluff, asking him why he's so convinced it's someone from Holby and his answer is as simple and to the point as his previous game was not.

"You're Cruella de Beauchamp." He replied, topping up his glass again, "You don't have a life on the 'outside' remember?"

At first she's offended, but then, comes the crashing realization that he has a point, and the knowledge that he's right tames her anger at him, whilst provoking the kind of melancholy mood that only pregnancy hormones can bring. Silently she reaches out and takes the Cognac bottle from him, sloshing it neat into her now empty mug and then looking at him challengingly, daring him to take her to task over it.

He doesn't, instead just smiling at her,

"Frankly Connie, I don't see what the problem is. With that combination of genes, it's going to be a good looking kid… stubborn mind you… but good looking and stubborn is quite a combination. I mean," he reaches for her hand, "look how well it's worked on you..."


	4. The Baby

It's strange, but far from being disconcerted by the fact that he's put a name to the father of her unborn child she actually welcomes it. After months of sitting on the secret, it is a relief to be able to offload, even if it is to a virtual stranger with aspirations that apparently lie in stand up comedy.

"The problem lies," she says, as she sips her drinks, relishing the sensation of neat liquor burning her throat for the first time in months, "in the fact that the man couldn't bring up…" she pauses, contemplates going for 'a goldfish' and then decides that if she's going to insult her former lover she may as well go the whole nine yards, "phlegm, let alone a child."

Across the table Abra bursts out laughing, showering both himself and the table with alcohol, "Don't mince your words Mrs Beauchamp."

She shrugs, "I very rarely do."

He looks at her curiously, noting the way she can't meet his eyes, "So, it's as simple as that is it. He's incapable of being a father so you're not going to let him try?"

She sighs, "I didn't tell you because I wanted a lecture on paternal rights."

"You didn't tell me at all. I worked it out for myself. However," he smiles at her genially, "I have no intention of lecturing you. You're a smart woman, you obviously know what you're doing. Unless," he adds, "you want to talk it over. It's a big decision to make on your own."

She wants to tell him to mind his own business, but instead, as before she finds herself keen to talk, more willing to open up to him than she ever thought possible.

"It is a big decision." She says slowly, "But I'm sure it's the right one. And I have to get used to making such choices, I'm don't doubt that motherhood will throw up a whole lot of more of those."

"Ah yes," Abra says, peering at her over the top of his glass, "- education, discipline, childcare – I mean you'll be going back to work." His last remark is phrased as just that, a comment not a question and for some reason Connie finds herself bristling at it.

"What makes you think I can't be a stay at home mother?"

He smiles knowingly, "What makes you think you can?"

Touché.

"Of course," He continues, the knowing smile getting slightly more knowing, "your decisions will be based on one principle and one principle alone – only the best for your baby right?"

She's not surprised by his assumption – her reputation obviously proceeds her – and she's quick to acknowledge that he's right, adding after the fact that this is precisely the reason that his or her father will have absolutely nothing to do with them and then regretting it when it occurs to her that the comment may earn her the lecture she's so far avoided.

To her relief though, he lets the subject of Sam drop, choosing to remain focused on his theory that only the best will do, and contemplating what exactly that'll mean for the baby's wardrobe.

"Babygrows by Gucci? Bibs by Prada?" He chuckles, "Booties by Manolo Blahniks."

She laughs and teases him over his knowledge of ladies shoes – a consequence of watching too much 'Sex and the City' he informs her, but little does he realise his words aren't a million miles from the truth; already the room she has earmarked for the nursery is full of designer babywear, Beauchamp Junior already owning a wardrobe to rival her own.

Only the best indeed.

It's then that she pulls him up on his continued interest in her child, pointing out that if babies are such a fascination to him he ought maybe consider having one of his own.

"I don't have the equipment." He points out, before adding, "Anyway, I'm not interested in babies." He lets his words hang in the air for a few seconds, "I'm interested in you."

It occurs to her she may very well be being hit on for the third time that evening – fourth if she includes Diane telling her that "she loves her very very much" as she was trying to get her out of the car – and it concerns her that far from getting tired of it, she's actually becoming more and more receptive to the idea. She tries to tell herself that it's just because she's tired and / or already feeling the effects of the alcohol she's drinking, but some small part of her knows its because far from finding Abra to be the irritating little bastard she's always written him off as, she actually, truth be known, rather likes him.

Not 'likes him' likes him, as in wants to screw him but he's funny and perceptive and well… she's enjoying his company.

Having reached this rather worrying conclusion she tries to decide how exactly to handle it. Going home seems like the best idea, but given that she's now at least three quarters of the way to being completely pissed, and he being all the way there and halfway back driving would not seem to be an option.

She looks at him, "I think I'm going to call myself a taxi."

"You're going home?" He asks, "Can I come too?"

"No you can not." She fixes him in one of her best trademark frosty stares, which he ruins seconds later by pouting with such disappointment that she can't help but laugh, at which his pout fades and his grin returns.

"Come on, at least let me share the ride. No funny business, I promise." he adds, sounding, she thinks, more sincere than he ever has. She smiles, "Ok then, but no funny business."

"Of course not Boss…" he grins, "just full sex the second we get back to yours…"


	5. Going Home And After

It's a joke, they both know that, and yet it doesn't drop. It doesn't drop because Abra doesn't let it. First he's coming in for coffee – then he's questioning whether the pregnancy hormones are making her horny – he's relentless, not letting up for a second for the entirety of the cab ride home.

Connie knows she ought to be irritated by the whole thing, and yet, she can not bring herself to be. From anyone else it would be dull and repetitive but from him, well…

It's funny.

Which is why she finds herself relenting, at least in so far as the coffee goes, and they're soon ensconced in her drawing room, a pot of coffee between them as they share a fiery debate on hospital politics.

And then, during a lull in the debate that stems from the fact that each has finally come round to the fact that the other is right but are not about to admit it, he raises the subject again.

"Are we going to have a shag or not then?"

Connie smiles, sips her coffee and then slowly shakes her head, "I think not Mr Durrant, but, for the millionth time this evening, thank you for asking." She watches with some amusement as he sighs in mock despair and then continues, "You are welcome to use one of the spare rooms if you so wish though."

He considers the offer just as she's considered his, and when he eventually responds it's with a question not an answer.

"If I do will I be woken by the sound of you vomiting copiously in the morning?"

She nods, "Quite possibly I'd have thought, unless," she giggles – a sound he's never heard until tonight and he can't help thinking that it really rather suits her, "you beat me to it. Hangovers versus morning sickness and all that…"

He grins, "True… I guess I'll just have to race you to the bathroom."

---

In any event she's the first one over the threshold, and when he joins her shortly afterwards it's to rub her back and provide her with a freshly made peppermint tea. She knows she ought to be embarrassed at being seen in such an undignified situation, and suspects that with anyone else she still would be, but there's something about Abra, and his relaxed manner that puts her instantly at ease and actually, she quite enjoys being looked after for once.

She's less grateful for his presence half an hour later when she emerges downstairs to find that he's started frying eggs and bacon in her absence but she finds it impossible to argue with his theory that if she can have peppermint tea for her morning sickness, he shouldn't be deprived of the fried food that he needs and so they reach a happy medium as they sit in the conservatory with all the windows open as he eats and she drinks and gradually they each start to feel a whole lot better.

Over their respective breakfasts the issue of getting to work raises its ugly head, aware as they both are that his car is still at Holby and hers is at Diane's. A taxi is duly called, and while they're waiting Abra pays her back for her hospitality by bringing in washing that has been left on the line from the morning before which earns him a whole load more brownie points in her eyes.

So many brownie points in fact that Connie starts to wonder how she ever managed to get him so wrong… 

Especially since she's usually such a good judge of character...

---

"Cracking night last night." Abra says to Ric as he enters his office an hour later, where he finds his friend looking somewhat worse for wear, "The bit about your resignation was a bit of a downer but from there on it was just up, up, up."

"Really?" Ric looks at him questioningly, obviously searching his mind for lost memories, "I don't remember."

Abra laughs, "Hardly surprising. You were spannered. You threw up down the esteemed Mrs Beauchamp. Which reminds me," he grins from ear to ear, "you owe me a hundred quid."

At his words Ric looks slightly more queasy than he did before, "I owe you what?!"

"The bet." Abra sits down at the desk, a smug look on his face, "I won the bet." He watches with some amusement as Ric appears to be thinking desperately, trying to remember the details of said bet, his amusement growing as Ric's confusion turns to complete and utter disbelief.

"You're not saying…"

He nods smugly, "Indeed. While you were at home in some kind of alcoholic coma Mrs Beauchamp and myself were doing the wild thing. Jealous?"

Ric chuckles, "Not jealous so much as completely disbelieving. Nice try Abra but she wouldn't touch you with a bargepole. I told you that." 

He's interrupted by Abra, and a simple gesture which involves him reaching into his pocket and then placing a very expensive pair of knickers on Ric's desk.

"Proof enough for you? Don't worry mate, I'll take a cheque."

--- 

The guilt only comes later when Connie appears on Keller, all smiles and so obviously pleased to see him, unaware of the amused sideways looks Ric is giving her from the other side of the ward. 

That said though, he's glad she's appeared. It adds credence to his claims and will stop Ric having any doubts and canceling the cheque. He guides her to a quiet corner, although still in full view of the ever curious Ric and then reaches out for her hand, "How are you feeling now?"

She smiles, "I'm good. I just came down to say thank you for last night. I had a good time." She hesitates, and when she speaks again it appears she's as surprised by what she says as he is, "I was wondering, would you like to do it again some time? Tonight maybe. Dinner or something?"

He nods, "Sure. I'll pick you up at 8." He hugs her, and this time the act isn't purely for Ric's benefit. In actual fact it has very little to do with Ric and everything to do with what he wants. In spite of what he first thought, he really likes her, "I'll see you later."

He watches as she goes to walk away, still a little bemused by this turn of events and the obviously thrilled look on her face, and suddenly he feels guilty all over again.

"Connie," he calls out, stopping her in her tracks, "Leave the reservations to me eh? It's my treat tonight." He thinks about the hundred pound cheque in his pocket, nestled there alongside the knickers he stole while bringing in her washing,

"I owe you one."


End file.
